


Glimmers Through the Curtain

by alcyonejonquil



Series: How You Appear-related Scribbles [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Parenting Difficulties, Prequel, Prompt Fill, Snapshots, first up, followed by, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-23 04:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20886377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcyonejonquil/pseuds/alcyonejonquil
Summary: Things that occurred away from the spotlight. Quite little things - which makes them no less important.(Prompt fills for r/FanFiction's 2019 OCtober celebration, featuring my Skyrim OC father and daughter duo, Raffaele and Clelia Orsino.)





	1. A Warm Touch

For a few moments, the glade fell quiet.

(Was it only her imagination, or did the frozen corpses strewn about, behind overturned tables and rickety wooden structures, still emit faint bluish tendrils in the air?)

It… it looked a bit too much like a massacre. For anyone’s comfort, let alone a deserter's, a fugitive’s.

Shouldn’t have gotten roped into this.

_Run, fool._

She spun on her heels, searching for a way out over the hills, a path, anything.

A short intake of breath, rattling within a feeble throat.

The other girl was hunched forward, trembling fists covering her mouth, gaze fixed on the dark-robed figure lying at Clea’s feet.

She’d asked her to.

“You’ve asked me to, so don’t start!” Clea told her aloud, as well – _voice too harsh, that had been her mother, for goodness’ sake, be reasonable, show some damned pity!_

Hurrying to shove the blood-streaked sword in her hand back into its scabbard, she threw another long look around, stomach rolling.

Witches. Terrible power unleashed, ice, lightning… necromancy. Inhuman. Always carried an inkling of contempt for such matters; what she’d just seen only served to multiply it.

This miserable sod, though...

“All right, job done. You’re free and I’m not a reanimated carcass. You’re very welcome. Now, I have to get moving. So, what…”

Such huge, pale eyes, she found turned towards her then. Eyes you couldn’t step away from, not without a leaden soul.

_Stendarr’s shitting mercies._

“Illia, was it? Are you staying here? Are you coming? Or…? Hello,” she said, pacing in her direction, “focus, please, I am talking to you!”

Those eyes slowly blinking, darting from corner to corner, and from that distance, the sway in the girl’s posture became starkly apparent.

“I can’t,” a whisper. “Can’t stay.”

“Fine. Let’s go, then, keep close to me.“

She found herself hesitating.

“Can I…?”

_Can I trust you?_, she’d meant to inquire. One of the very stupidest questions possible, given the circumstances. Could she trust a stranger, a mage? Who was looking at her like a hunted animal would?

This was _so_ coming to bite her in the arse later.

“Well, if we’re going, we’re _going_.” She made to grab Illia’s forearm. “It’s best for you to get away from here, in any event. It’ll make it easier, I promise. You’ll be – “

_What. In the Gods’ name. Are you even doing? _

She swallowed, cutting off every single instinct that had served her in all her twenty-four years.

And in the split second that followed, two things happened, one after the other.

Clea peered down at the unnaturally white hand she’d been reaching for and, remembering the utter chaos it had wrought mere minutes prior, felt all the hair on her body stand up in revulsion.

Then, Clea’s heart, doltish, merciless puppeteer that it was, decided _that_ was a good time to assume control.

And assume it did. Without a hitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for Week One: "Overcome."


	2. Conservation of Energy

“Explain to me, please, how that little show you’ve put on has helped you in any way whatsoever.”

No reaction apart from the slight pursing of her lips. That blank spot on the wall she’s so carefully examining must be entrancing.

“Perhaps it was a means of blowing off some steam, and now you’re ready to return to the amiable conversation us civilised people are supposed to make use of.”

He’s not going to get through to her like this. She’s calmed down considerably since he’d sent her to compose herself, but her stance is still rigid, brow still storming.

“You might have noticed how everyone else agreed to the new schedule without question, and you were the only one to revolt?” His voice drops to a murmur. “At least if you’d done so in a more dignified manner. But no, why would you have?”

She inhales, then lowers her eyes to somewhere near the edge of a well-worn rug.

“The others don’t have history and philosophy lectures to attend until midnight, after the regular day’s done. Sir.”

“_Oh?_”

Conservation of energy. The most natural and understandable of principles. She’s still a kid, that makes opposing it even trickier. Why work, why struggle, when you may be able to avoid it? The brain refuses “unnecessary” strain with all its might. Perennial knee-jerk reaction.

(The brain with knees. Why does that sound like a caricature waiting to happen?)

Nevertheless. Time to drill _that_ idea into her again. How many times has he been forced to, over the course of this month alone?

It’s starting to grate on him.

“Would you rather lounge on your bed like a mollusc, twiddling your thumbs? Daydreaming about who-knows-what? I've told you time and time again: if you consider that to be something you can afford, you’re sorely mistaken.”

He slowly stands up, propping his hands on the desk.

“Never mind the world going to Oblivion in a handbasket all around us, and your having to assume a position of real responsibility sooner than you might think.” Her face contorts even further, and he carries on. “_Even_ if that weren’t the case. Idleness won’t make you happy. Far from it.”

In vain does he try to catch her gaze, determine whether she’s paying attention.

A weary sigh, then a renewed attempt.

“Will you be able to bear not being exceptional? Being dismissed, or respected out of obligation? I know how I felt at your age, I know _you_, and you have to trust me when I say you will not. No matter how hard you try to convince me – to convince yourself – otherwise. That way you’re heading frustration lies. Misery.”

Of course she opens her mouth to protest. She’s seventeen. That’s a lesson for someone much older, but… can he wait? Is there enough wiggle room, for now?

No, there isn’t.

Can he truly expect her to take his word for it, even so?

He closes his eyes, and remembers being so godsdamned certain of everything. Remembers having no notion of the years passing by, of a future laden with hardship, with the incessant pounding in his temples and nights spent worrying if what he’s doing is _right_, if he’s fit to fulfill the tasks he’s been given, if they're even worth it.

There’s no chance she might be able to grasp that, see the full picture. Not for a while.

Nagging her, is what he’s doing. And that doesn’t solve a thing.

“Why don’t we go for a stroll down to the river, hm? Stretch our legs a little?” he asks, turning to the window to gaze at the cloudless sky. “We’re going to grow cobwebs, all cooped up in this place.”

It’s not meant as a suggestion. She doesn’t treat it as one.

The conversation picks up eventually, on mellow paths through invigorating air. As it always would. The tension steadily melting, they find themselves exchanging garrison gossip and half-hearted barbs. She’s lightning-quick, almost caustic, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek with pride and sorrow.

“You are so intent on antagonising me,” he tells her on their way back. “Making a villain of me.”

He comes to a stop under an ancient, gnarly tree and faces her.

“Yet I have nothing but your best interests at heart, Clea. Believe it or not.”

_Yes_, says the hesitant smile she offers him, and the eyes that stray to his at last.

He allows the gentleness to seep through.

“What was all that even about? You ought to have been used to how things are done by now. When have I ever let such disobedience slide – in front of everyone, no less? It reflects badly on me, and worse on you.”

_That’s enough of that. If she’s gotten it, she’s gotten it. If not… we shall see._

They join back with the trail, keeping an unhurried pace.

“How many pages, today?”

She blinks, and her expression turns wry.

“Thirty-three.”

“And the analysis?”

“…five.” She hurries to answer the look he throws. “This one’s more complicated than the last, I couldn’t for the life of me – “

“Well, you’ve still got a few hours until supper. Better get to it. Were you going to ask for my help, by any means?”

“No, no,” she says, not without a hint of bitterness he chooses to overlook. “I’ve got it.”

“You absolutely do. I’d never give you something you couldn’t handle.”

A brief pause.

“And stand up straight, if you will. What sort of posture is this?”

Is the shadow passing over her features potentially troublesome? Could be. No more pressing her, though, at least for the moment; it would cause more harm than good.

Divines know how easy it used to be for him to snap, once. And how much of himself he can already see in her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Week Two prompt I've chosen: "A Day in the Shoes of..."
> 
> The events of this "chapter" obviously occur at a much earlier point in the timeline - Clea was twenty-four by the time she left the garrison and the opening scene of the game took place.


End file.
